Chapter 4 - The Anonymous Ally
There was nowhere to run.
The executive suite had a single entrance. To the left was the small marble bathroom; directly ahead was the balcony overlooking the concrete courtyard forty feet below.
I shoved the thick legal folder beneath my arm, grabbed the manila envelope, and slipped into the recessed walk-in closet, pulling the louvered wooden door until it was almost shut, leaving only a half-inch crack.
The main door clicked open.
Footsteps echoed on the hardwood foyer—heavy, deliberate strides accompanied by the faint, muffled hum of a walkie-talkie.
"He's not answering his cell," a gruff male voice said. "Marcus, pick up."
It was Greg.
Marcus’s best man. Six-foot-three, two hundred and forty pounds, wearing his matching groomsman tuxedo. Through the slats of the closet door, I watched him pace into the living area, his phone pressed against his thick jaw.
"Yeah, Mrs. Holloway," Greg said into the phone, his tone shifting to false charm. "No, everything's totally fine down here. Just a minor zipper malfunction with Nia's dress. You know how brides are on the big day. Marcus is just upstairs helping her calm down. Go ahead and tell the quartet to play another set. We’ll be down in fifteen."
He ended the call, cursed under his breath, and marched straight toward the conference desk.
He glanced at the open laptop sleeve, then his eyes flicked across the room.
Straight toward the open safe.
Greg froze. His broad shoulders went rigid.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
He took three long strides toward the closet.
My breath locked in my throat. My fingernails dug into the cardboard edges of the manila folder until the paper groaned. If he opened this door, I was trapped in a dead-end closet with a man twice my size who had everything to lose.
Greg reached for the brass handle of the louvered door.
Suddenly, the phone on the mahogany desk rang—a loud, piercing electronic chime that made Greg jerk his hand back.
He spun around, scowling, and pulled out his cell phone. It wasn't ringing.
The room’s landline was.
Greg hesitated, then walked over to the desk and snatched the receiver off the cradle. "Yeah? Who is this?"
A voice spoke on the other end—too low for me to hear through the receiver, but whatever was said made Greg's face darken with instant alarm.
"What do you mean, the parking deck?" Greg demanded. "Who authorized a tow truck near the bridal limousine? ... No, do not let them touch the Lincoln. Marcus left the corporate bonds in the trunk. I’m coming down right now."
He slammed the receiver down, cursed loudly, and practically sprinted out of the suite, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.
The click of the latch was the loudest sound I had ever heard.
I burst out of the closet, my lungs burning as I gasped for air.
Whoever was on that phone had just saved me. The anonymous sender wasn't just texting tips—they were actively manipulating the chess board, clearing my path through the hotel in real time.
I ran to the door, cracked it open, and checked the corridor. Empty.
I sprinted down the hallway back toward the concrete stairwell, clutching the legal documents against my chest like a shield.
When I hit the third-floor landing, I nearly collided with my mother.
Evelyn was standing right by the heavy metal door, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, tears still staining her face.
"Nia!" she gasped, grabbing my arms. "Thank God. I heard someone running on the stairs a minute ago—"
"It was Greg. He didn't see me." I grabbed her hand, pushing open the heavy fire door to the service exit. "Mom, we have to move now. We can't use the elevators, and we can't go through the lobby."
"Nia, what is in that folder?"
"Dad," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "Dad left us something, Mom. He didn't leave us broke. Marcus and Vanessa have been stealing from us for months. I will explain everything, but we have to get to my car."
We descended the concrete stairwell at a breakneck pace, skipping the ground floor lobby entirely and heading down into the subterranean levels: Level P2, where the staff parking and commercial loading docks were located.
When we pushed through the final fire door onto the concrete floor of P2, the cool, damp air of the underground garage washed over us, smelling of diesel exhaust and damp pavement.
Parked twenty yards away under a buzzing sodium light was my seven-year-old silver Honda Civic.
Beside it stood a woman.
She was wearing a tailored navy blazer and dark trousers, her blonde hair pulled back into a severe, professional bun. A St. Clair Hotel executive management badge was clipped to her lapel.
I stopped dead in my tracks, pulling my mother behind me.
The woman raised both hands, palm outward.
"Don't run, Nia," she said softly. Her voice was calm, measured, and instantly recognizable.
It was the voice from the landline.
"Who are you?" I demanded, holding the legal folder behind my back. "Did Marcus send you?"
"If Marcus sent me, security would already have you in handcuffs," the woman replied, taking a slow step forward. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a smartphone, and tapped the screen.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
She was the anonymous sender.
"My name is Claire Mercer," the woman said, looking straight into my mother’s eyes.
May you like
Evelyn gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Mercer? You’re... you’re David Mercer’s daughter?"
The woman nodded slowly, a sad, bitter smile touching her lips. "Yes, Mrs. Vance. My father was Arthur's business partner at Vance & Mercer Contracting. The one Marcus Holloway and his father drove into bankruptcy eleven years ago."
